


From the Edge of a Terrible Dream Comes Light

by nocturnite



Series: Scenes We All Wanted To Happen But Didn't [1]
Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Artemis doesn't know how to tag stories despite reading so many, His Last Vow, M/M, Other, Series 3, creepy hospital scene fix it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 21:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2748416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnite/pseuds/nocturnite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of a figurative bullet to the heart, and a much more literal shot, John sits with Sherlock in his hospital room. A nearly one-sided conversation is had (sort of), and something bright appears in this moment of increasing darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Edge of a Terrible Dream Comes Light

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfic I've ever written, ever, and I've been reading fanfiction since I was 10 years old. 
> 
> What can I say? I was inspired! (also it's nearing the end of the semester and I suspect giddiness might have something to do with it)
> 
> Be kind readers, and please, let me know if these guys seem in character at least a bit.

_"Sherlock...”_

The whispers of consciousness rouse him, briefly.

 

_“Sherlock.”_

 

His eyes flutter open to harsh lights and the face that now features in his nightmares.

 

_“You don't tell John.”_

 

Well, that just won't do. How could he not? It's hardly even a question that needs being asked.

 

And he drifts away again.

 

 

When he next comes to a brief moment of consciousness, it's to a hand tightly gripping his own.

 

"Sherlock..."

 

This voice is warmer, this voice is golden. This voice brings to mind fire-lit nights at Baker Street and fingers tap-tap-tapping away at a laptop. This voice brings the comfort of a friendship he'd only guessed at before now.

 

_John..._

 

This voice does not break into his thoughts and explode into his mind, the word _LIAR_ flying in the air alongside the fragments of trust he had misplaced. This voice, well. He would do anything for this voice.

 

Like get shot apparently.

 

He makes an effort, and it _is_ a great effort, to turn his head and flutter his eyes in welcome relief that John is his visitor instead of, well, anyone else really. Never mind the shark that still circles the blood-let waters and the two-faced assassin that lingers on the edges of the kill. Right now, John is here and that’s all he’s ever really needed lately.

 

He feels John squeeze his hand in acknowledgement, and the squeak of a chair being pulled closer.

 

“There we are now. You’ve been drifting in and out, you know. Keep giving me scares, why don’t you?”

 

The voice is obviously teasing, but there’s an unmistakable note of relief absolutely saturating it, practically brimming over the sides to drip onto Sherlock and all the betrayal he feels right now. It’s almost enough to start healing the hurt and the shock.

 

It’s obvious proof that John is still on his side. He squeezes John’s hand back, as best he can. He’s practically floating on morphine still, though, so at best he assumes it’s more like a flutter of his fingers. Hateful, to not be in more control of himself. 

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” John sighs, “what are we going to do?”

 

And Sherlock almost stops breathing. He knows he breathed her name into the air when he came to, in desperation and in revelation. He had hopped nobody would hear, too amazed by his recovery, _by coming back to life_ , to remember.

 

And then Sherlock feels something peculiar. A slight grazing up from his hand to his inner elbow, like a finger tracing veins. He shivers and his breath catches in a sense of bewilderment. This is new.

 

“My _very_ best friend, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock flutters his eyes again in acknowledgment. Such a curse and a blessing, this best friend business. It’s been the most painful relationship he’s ever experienced; and he has _Mycroft_ for an older brother. But it has also been the most rewarding, something Sherlock finds he can’t really live without, in at least some shape or form.

 

A flash of memory, pale eyes in a drawn face.

 

_“I’m sorry Sherlock, truly I am.”_

 

Anything, he’d do anything.

 

“Shhhh, Sherlock, yes. Shhhh, I know.”

 

Oh god, had he said any of that out loud? The finger gently tracing has now become a hand rubbing up and down his arm, to soothe and comfort the sudden attack of nerves and the racing of the heart monitor.

 

“Just like any other case, hmm? Sherlock? We’ll solve it together, yes? Just you and me, like before. Just you and me against the world. _All_ the world Sherlock, do you hear that? Anyone.”

 

Sherlock trembles in agreement, too tired and shaky for any other form of acknowledgment by now. The previous visits by the two people he now has to plot against anew have been dulled and faded from his mind. Their sharpness, the bitterness of their regard and their remorselessness has nothing on the warmth of John’s hand against his, his voice carrying Sherlock into a less relentless oblivion.

 

The two of them, yes, against _anyone._

But John, he doesn’t yet know that it’s hardly just _anyone._

Barely, at the edge of his consciousness, he feels the warm heat of a golden voice against his ear.

 

“It’s _all_ fine, Sherlock.”

 

And a tiny hope is sparked deep within the palace he keeps bordered up like a stronghold. A spark hopefully strong enough to withstand the shatter of bullets and the teeth of a hungry shark.


End file.
